


The Dingos

by LeedleLee



Category: The Warriors (1979), The Warriors (Yurick) - All Media Types
Genre: A little projecting, Anyway posting on this site is rough, Everything that can go wrong does go wrong, Gangs, I don't really have an excuse for this one, It won't add the little spaces with each new paragraph no matter how much I fix it, fun stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11719293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeedleLee/pseuds/LeedleLee
Summary: Left alone when Snow goes back to help Ajax, Swan experiences hell on Earth after he's surrounded by a violent gang out to get the Warriors after Cyrus' meeting goes south.Not a The Warriors movie fanfiction, per se. Based on the original script.





	The Dingos

**Author's Note:**

> In the original The Warriors script, Swan was kidnapped early on by a gay, as told by specifics, gang called The Dingos. As a pansexual rape victim I am aware that, as it was written in the late seventies, it was surely meant as a horrific stereotype and insult to the gay community, and thus find disgust in the topic and thought of what the movie could have been. I can't help myself, though, to explore into process of what happens to Swan in such a vague tone. Maybe I just want to project. Maybe the author in me wants to fill in the blanks. Maybe I'm just a damn bad person.

   The burn of acid rising in Swan's throat nearly brings tears to his eyes, his head pulled backward by his hair, a strange gang member's crotch in his face. He's hyper aware of every movement around him and tries to close his eyes, feeling dizzy, feeling the thick hands on his body. His back, his neck, his ribs, his waist are all stinging like a lighter held too close to the skin, searing into him and scarring without a visual cue.  He hears a loud laugh and gags when his head is yanked more.  
   "Look at 'er, prettiest little fag I've seen in a long time. Her _neck_! No wonder you're named after that bird, baby."  
   Swan feels his tendons struggling as his arms are pulled back, and realises they're sliding off his vest and replacing it with _something_ he can't recognise. It slides over his chest uncomfortably tight, his arms being forced into place as buckles pull him into a hug. He feels _trapped, locked_ then and yanks and kicks, a fish out of water. His heels escape a hand and smacks into something soft, and a growl sounds from behind him.  
   "You're gonna regret doin' that, baby. I will do so much," the words turn to deep growls as a sharp jolt of pain goes through his body, a cry bursting from him, the Dingo having tight hold of Swan's more sensitive area of the body, " _worse to you_."  
   It's in Swan's instinct to bare his teeth and fight,  to teach some form of lesson to the people hassling him before sliding into the shadows and disappearing. At that moment he wants to break the arms of the men touching him, how many?, to kick them while they're down before feeding them to their own dogs. The vicious Doberman pack flanking these men earlier looked cold enough to attack their owners. Swan would hope.  
   But right now he can feel hands on his thighs, opening his legs to an uncomfortable and far too wide V as the other men hold him down by his shoulders and spine. His nose grinds against the concrete floor as someone turns his head, forcing his cheek down. He dares to open his eyes then.  
   The man on this side misses Swan's lips. His face twists with hatred, fear, disgust... he's not sure. But he feels his face contort as precome is smeared into his flesh before the man pulls away to try again. This time he makes it, his lower body now pressed into the Swan's lips. Although he has them locked tight Swan can feel them being moved as the man shifts. He knows this can't go on forever, god don't let it go on forever, and he tries to not imagine how much longer before-  
   Then. _Then_ someone presses their knee into his spine, just long enough for Swan to have to gasp for air, giving the man ample time to push himself into the Warchief's mouth. A mocking laugh sounds from all around him, slaps of high fives and general taunts sounding so distant yet way too close. He wishes he had been fed to the dogs.  
   "Don't you lie. You love it, don't you?" one asks. A higher voice.  
   "Come on, look. You know you wanna look." another laughs. Loud. Irritating. Swan's heard the laugh all night.  
   "Let's see what else she has to offer..."  
   The two hands behind him dig into him, opening him. He's forced to be open for them as one thrusts out and into his mouth. Swan can't help but to hope the bastard can feel the vomit climbing in his throat. But once the plug is gone he knows he'll only get worse. But he can't make himself swallow, he knows it'll only make the man happier. So he stays where he is, frozen in place as the man's buddy readies himself, and...  
   Swan nearly _screeches_ around the man in his mouth. He's instantly on fire and he's struggling again, his bare feet sliding over the floor in a last ditch effort to run. His body convulses, his spine stretching and curving. The skin on his cheek, before simply irritated from the grinding, tears and begins to bleed as the wound is forced further open with every new movement. If he could have died then and there he would. Far too happily. He would curl into himself and disappear, leaving his physical body behind forever for these sick fucks to do with it as they wish. Feed it to their dogs, toss it in Riverside's waters, do whatever _the fuck_ they wanted. It wouldn't be his problem anymore.  
   A fleeting thought crosses his mind, a simple attempt to distract, and he thinks about Cyrus. The truce. All for one and one for all. Would this gang be just as protected as his? Had Cyrus not gone down, would he have to look upon these men as brothers with no idea of what they are capable of? Would they have used the gangs taking over the city as an excuse to gather civilians and use them as toys? Enough thinking. He's so tired.  Swan closes his eyes and stops.  
   When he comes to he's alone in the room. Before he was on his stomach, now he lays on his back, blinking wearily at the naked bulb in the centre of the ceiling. After a few seconds of lying still, straining to hear anything, he finally accepts that he's alone. They're gone. He could be the last man on the planet.  
   He rocks his shoulders as he sits up, noticing with an unknown emotion the piece they replaced his vest with is a straight jacket, on relentlessly tight. He's never seen one before, let alone on his own damn body, and he stares at it with widened eyes. Knowing he shouldn't move his arms lest his body realises it's trapped and begin to panic he does anyway, pulling his arms in their proper direction. There's little to no give, less than a half inch for his arms to move. Just as he imagined his mind begins to panic while he stays silent, eyes darting over the white cloth, searching for any worn areas or signs of weakness. Nothing. He may as well have already gone mad.  
   He looks down. Sees his bare legs sticking out of the jacket. And he knows. He knows he can't die here.  
   He just wonders if he has the strength to fight it anymore.


End file.
